Shattered retreat
by Gidgit2u
Summary: Draco is found hiding during the height of the Battle of Hogwarts, by none other than Hermione Granger in a moment of retreat. As the battle rages in around them, where do they go from here?
1. Chapter 1

**Di** **sclaimer: I do not make money off this story nor own anything Harry Potter and am not JK Rowling.**

 **0-xxx-000-xxxx-0**

 **Part 1**

Draco sat on the rubbled stone, unmoving, unseeing. In the distance, he heard shouts. Thunderous roars from a giant or two and explosions. So many explosions scattered amidst the screams that followed close behind.

And here he hid. Continued to hide from both sides of a war that would see him die. That would happily piss or dance on his grave.

If someone even desired to dig him one.

How had he ended up here? How had he let himself get so blinded by an ideal he realized too late, was all just bullshit smoke and mirrors? Parroted by the weak, who blamed others for their own failures.

When he'd seen her blood; that thin, jagged line from his aunt's knife on her throat split and drip crimson on the floor; he knew. Knew with a certainty that fell like stones of lead into the pit where his heart should be.

Knew that the ideals he'd been raised on, told over and over until he could recite them in his sleep; were nothing but lies.

Lies, unsubstantiated prejudice, fear mongering.

He'd been so stunned to see bright red rather than the brown color of mud, that when Potter had wrenched the wands from him he'd had little more than a token resistance within him. He'd lost then, what little ground he'd had left in the dark lord's circle; first by not identifying the trio immediately and second, by letting them escape with all the wands.

He'd been punished for these misdeeds, of course he'd been, but for the first time in his life felt he deserved it. He welcomed it, sought oblivion through the pain. He didn't blame the catalyst as he'd done in the past, didn't begrudge the _reason_ behind the discipline. Losing Dobby, losing to Granger in every class, to a mud...

His mind shut off at the subconscious pull to the word that now repulsed him to his core. For he'd seen, there was nothing muddy about her blood.

It was the same color as is own.

And didn't that just damn him to hell. Or maybe it damned her... Who knew anymore.

So here he sat. After Potter, Weasley and Granger had saved him - once again - from the place of hidden things, he'd tucked himself away and took himself out of the fray. He knew he was a marked man, from all sides and in many ways; and his desire to live superseded any heroics he might attempt, for whatever side would have him.

He was too tired for politics anyone. Too tired of the dance.

As he sat there, contemplating his fate in each win/loss scenario, he heard a scratching toward the door, before it slowly opened. Peering towards the opening of the broom cupboard he sat in; he saw a hand, then an arm, then a head, torso and body come slithering around the door into the room. The person hadn't seen him, here, hidden away amongst the shadows.

He lifted his hands up, the international symbol of unarmed, and said hoarsely, "Come on in, Granger, but please, shut the door. There's more than enough room in here. For both of us"

 **0-xxx-000-xxx-0**

Whirling around, Hermione whipped up her wand and set her gaze upon the figure in the corner. She saw Malfoy, crouched against the far wall of what she'd _assumed_ was an abandoned broom cupboard.

He looked... Terrible was too trite a word. Utterly defeated only scratching the surface. Her wand lowered a bit at the sight in front of her, this broken shell with wandless hands raised in surrender.

She didn't know if he knew about his father, that Lucius had died protecting Ginny - of all people - but in that moment Hermione forgave the man his sins as her red-haired friend was able to escape unharmed.

Ron and Percy however, weren't as lucky. Ron was killed instantly, a blessing when she thought about Percy's demise; him bleeding out onto the stone from various cursed wounds from a spell gone wrong. A mangled sectumsempra, if she'd stuck around long enough to hazard a guess; but she'd been desperate to escape. To find a place to regroup.

She couldn't find Harry. Ron was... dead. Neville was, well, Neville was _incredible_. She was in awe of how, over the past year, he'd come into his own, and he, Luna and Ginny were now out fighting the good fight as the new motivational trio.

She knew it was cowardly to retreat, even for a moment, but she needed that moment. A break to mourn what could have been; mourn the boy she'd loved for half her life, in one capacity or another.

They'd just kissed, for bloody sakes, just admitted the dance they'd been waltzing the past seven years actually had a direction. And now, in the blink of an eye, her world had shifted once more. There was no more dancing, not for her. At least, not for a while.

The war was ramping up outside, she could hear the thundering of hooves and yells as others joined the fight. She found herself numb to the goings on, numb to anything but the two of them inside the cupboard.

Returning her gaze to his, she lowered her wand completely.

"Ron's dead, Harry's disappeared; your father saved Ginny by sacrificing his own life." She said, and watched as his face broke further upon that last piece of news.

"I'm sorry." She said, but didn't mean them, not really. She was sorry in the way one was about the concept of loss, but she wasn't acutely sorry Lucius was dead.

Draco nodded, as if reading her thoughts, and she heard a small "Thank you." Though she couldn't be sure.

"My... Mother?" He croaked out, eyes shining but, she suspected, dehydration more than pride prevented tears from forming and falling.

"Unsure, I'm sorry. I haven't seen her for a while." At his obvious regard for his mother, Hermione found herself wanting to comfort, even if just through words; and to not be able gave her a soft pang.

This was a boy who'd made her life miserable throughout school. One who taunted and tormented and carried so much hate.

But when the chips had fallen, he hadn't given them up. He'd shown mercy, even if it was driven by fear. And she would always be grateful for that mercy.

"Can I... Can I stay here, just for a moment?" She asked tentatively. She knew he didn't pose a risk to her, not with her holding a wand and him without. But ingrained courtesy had her asking.

"Share away,"he replied, and despite the defeated air evident in his whole being, mustered a sneered, "Who am I to judge one's own retreat, as I myself embrace and wallow in it..."

And with that, he closed his eyes and turned his head, resting it against the trembling stone wall.

 **0-xxx-000-xxx-0**

 **A/N: This little darkish Drabble would not leave my brain, so here it is. I have plans for this story; don't anticipate it being long, but I will continue to add to it :) I hope you enjoy my first Dramione...**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, real life got a tad hectic for a bit there, and then the FF site went wonky. But it's fixed, and I'm not so swamped so here's chapter 2. Thank you for all who followed, favorited and reviewed. You are all lovely and make my days brighter.**

 **0-xxx-000-xxx-0**

 **Chapter 2**

Hermione sighed in relief as Malfoy turned his face away but held her breath; waiting for him to launch into his standard mockery of her inferred cowardice as was his custom.

He surprised her by staying silent. By keeping his face averted. By giving her – tactfully – space to grieve. Though, if the sounds her ears heard were correct and the visual shaking of his body against the stone wall was to be trusted; he was doing his own grieving.

Moving to sit along the opposite wall from him, she sank down and allowed herself a moment to fall apart, to remove the hardened mask of the warrior and expose the crumbling structure of the nineteen year old girl underneath. There upon the dusty floorboards, she rested her back against the cool stone and gave into her grief.

Her sobs came on harsh but silent; a year spent on the run with Harry had taught her the effectiveness of silently screaming into her pillow or the silent shedding of tears without disturbance. Harry'd had enough on his plate to have her piling on her own; she'd done her best to hide her grief over the possible loss of her parents and the hurt and anger over Ron's defection.

Ron. Her heart tore open at the loss of her friend and confident; the one who'd kept her company when Harry'd been off on his own throughout the years. Despite the emotional merry-go-round from straddling the line of romantic interest and friendship they'd taken turns teasing the past two years; the bottom line always came down to him being one of her best friends. She'd miss him terribly, miss his humor and his exasperating ability to have her doubt herself by applying his own infuriatingly logical tactics.

She didn't know how long she cried; but after a while her sobs were nothing more than the husks of tears already shed.

As the sounds of the battle echoed around the two of them, huddled there in the cupboard, she began to pull herself together. She'd had her moment; now she needed to get back out there; _they_ needed her out there. Wiping her eyes, she felt a couple of sniffles escape, their audible disturbance causing the blond to look over at her.

Their eyes met, and held; silently communicating years of unsaid words.

Despite his years of absolute repulsion by and of her, she'd found herself always slightly fascinated by him. Fascinated by how – despite being obviously pampered and adored – despite being able to buy his way into any future government position he desired had he kept his head down; he instead went out of his way to make enemies with Harry and overall being a little prejudiced shite. Thus making his own life that much harder, by outright antagonizing 'the figurehead' of the moral high ground...

She could acknowledge that he was smart, only second behind her in class; with his friend Nott trailing slightly behind. It frustrated her, as his intelligence conflicted directly with his obnoxious actions, and the contradictions baffled her as to his motivations.

His friend Nott – well now – there was a human who, despite holding all the same cards as Malfoy; did not go out of his way to belittle her or instigate fights with Harry and – her mind chocked back a sob – Ron. Even after fifth year, when his dad had been captured and named as one of the Death Eaters from the ministry battle; he'd kept his head and held his tongue, sliding under the radar of Harry's constantly directed hatred towards the Slytherin masses. Or namely, one in particular; Malfoy...

Even Zabini, with his coolly appraising and haughty eyes, had held a somewhat neutral position for the most part, only sporadically littering his pointed commentary with derogatory slurs and barbed taunts. During slug-club dinners, he'd kept his veiled comments and apparent disgust muted - and overall his verbal jabs lacked the true menace and vitriol that Mafoy's did. Almost as if he found the whole blood purity issue pedantic and a bit of a yawn rather than the hill to mount his flag like the rest of his peers.

No, she mused, still maintaining eye contact, Draco Malfoy had _always_ fascinated her. Ever since second year when she realized the depth and extend of his hatred toward her, over something she couldn't control - something as mundane as her blood. To her logical brain it defied reason; that something invisible - DNA markers - would create such a pandemic of fear and disgust and hatred.

And that a boy of twelve could parrot it so resolutely and with that air of practiced confidence made her want to peel back his layers and find out _why_.

 **0-xxx-000-xxx-0**

Draco appraised the girl in front of him, thinking it was hard to believe she was one of the most talented witches he knew, based on her appearance. She had lost weight, off a frame that had already little to spare; and he winced at the thought of how the curse she'd taken at his aunt's hand would have affected her delicate bones.

Her face, the face that had haunted his dreams longer than before that infamous day at the Manor but for different reasons; was streaked with grime, fatigue and blood. She should have looked fragile, beaten, destitute. Instead, she wore her shattered impoverishment like a shawl, wrapping it around herself with pride. He could see in the lilt of her chin, the angle of her neck; she was far from beaten. Far from destroyed.

He was glad.

For so long he'd been blind to her abilities, to her strengths. Blinded by the haze of ingrained prejudices and indoctrinated beliefs. He'd thought her beneath him, dirty. That her magical talents were somehow falsified or twisted as a propaganda machine for Dumbledore war machine that were the kids he used as a shield.

How ironic that he'd come to realize, over the past two years, just how _not_ beneath him she was. How he was glad she hadn't been tortured into insanity by his Aunt, or killed by the Dark Lord or even… his father. He shuddered. He couldn't believe Lucius was dead. It seemed surreal. For all his faults – and there were many – Lucius had been a good father. He'd done his best to protect him from his mistakes when his own blind idiotic ideals had them trapped. When their refuge had shattered and became the place of nightmares.

Looking at the proud defiant lion staring back at him, not even a flicker of fear or disgust in her mahogany eyes, he felt the strangest sense of protection surge through him. The desire to protect, not himself, but her.

He lifted his hand, reached it out and let it hang between them. He noticed her eyes travel down to where his hand hung in the air between them.

"I know I've been a prat, a prig, an overzealous bigot if we are using overly grand descriptors." She snorted and rolled her eyes at his understatement. "And," he continued, "You have every right to hex me into oblivion Granger, for suggesting what I'm about to."

She raised her eyebrow. He sighed.

"I propose a truce, my surrender if you will to your side, right here if you help testify in favor of my mother. I don't even care what happens to me after the war, I know many will be pleased to see me rot and hung out for the crows to feast on. All I care about now is her; my mother's safety. We can forge it by magic or by… blood." She drew in a sharp breath and stared at him incredulously. For a Malfoy to offer a blood oath, especially with a mudblood – her mind spat viciously – it was unheard of. What he was offering was as rare as a unicorn foul sighting. "But it will be unbreakable, whatever means we seal the oath."

His pleading on his mother's behalf was her undoing. Not knowing her own parents fate, to see him place his mother above his own needs and fears was honestly refreshing and shown a different light on him.

She nodded and she could swear she saw him deflate slightly at her acquiescence. Oddly enough, she didn't feel as if she was making a deal with the devil; but instead felt that she was helping patch together a broken hippogriff who'd had the misfortune of being born with fangs instead of wings.


End file.
